Noir - A Soldier's Story
by purplecleric
Summary: The Military, a monster and a mentor... *** Warning - this is a Noir story - so it's dark*** Set between The First Time and Noir.
1. Life

_LIfe? LIfe? It's Death that makes life worth living for – Aaron Howard_

He survived college; got good grades, got girls, got by.

He even got a friend, a bespectacled motor enthusiast who demanded nothing more of him than hours spent under a hood, casual banter and the occasional six-pack. Lewis was another piece in the patchwork of deception he hid behind.

Just like his quick mind and enthusiasm for study endeared him to his tutors, who overlooked the occasional faux pas in their delight at having a student so talented. Just like the magic tricks he had been enthralled with as a young boy, and now used to charm and distract, to divert attention from his differences, to break the ice and gain a form of acceptance. Just like his knowledge of poetry and his polite manner, instilled and sometimes beaten into him by his mother, opened girl's eyes, opened their legs...

Outwardly, he was succeeding, but inside he was a mess.

He'd been drunk on sensation after that first time, had wanted to shout out his discovery, his delight to the world. Instead, he held the feelings tight inside, as he gripped himself tight in violent masturbation; memories of blood no longer enough as he sliced his skin to smell, to taste, to come. He held them tighter still as he buries himself, knife deep in slick warmth; the girl's whimpers, cries adding to his excitement. Stifling her sounds, her movements with his body, his strength until at last she is still, at last he can finish. There's the anti-climax of seeing her smile, stretch, reach out to him afterwards; the dreary resignation that he must maintain this pretence. He held the feelings even tighter as he used chivalry as an excuse to fight; the sweet sensations of violence and power singing in his veins, the hollow aftermath of not being able to follow through to completion.

All eclipsed by the knowledge that these things are not enough, will never be enough, ever again. Until memories of exhilaration are swallowed up by hunger, consumed by need and once again, the hunt begins.

But he's misjudged his prey, she may be young and small but is streetwise and wily from years living rough, and she escapes. Boiling with rage, burning with frustration he turns his fury on the next available target and realises, too late, that he has been blinded by his need. This is no bum weakened by malnutrition, worn down by neglect. He is met with strength and power equal to his, skill that exceeds his and he discovers the need to survive outweighs the need to kill. He breaks free and limps home battered and bruised, nursing his wounds, nursing his bitterness.

A timely lesson, reinforced by pain and humiliation and needs not met, but it does not deter him. He realises that death is what he desires most but not his own, and the next time he ventures into the night, it is with greater caution, more preparation and ultimately, he achieves release he has been craving.

And in the serenity that follows he sees a way forward, a way to gain proficiency while minimising risk. As career advisors talk of PhD's and research, his mind takes a more prosaic turn towards the military...


	2. Body

_I have the body of an eighteen year old. I keep it in the fridge. – Spike Milligan_

He disappeared.

Lost among a hundred other recruits, the combat gear was not the only camouflage he wore. For once he did not stand out. They were all tall, all strong. They all wore the same clothes, all had the same haircut. They ate the same food, spoke the same words, did the same things. Everything was as clean cut as their appearance; the rules and regulations defining every moment. It was a world of black and white; he was no longer bogged down in the dilemmas presented by nuances of interpretation, by shades of grey.

It was strangely liberating.

He had no need to compile new mental guidebooks to cope with this change of circumstances; the Army had already written them. Had no need for his mental censor; there was no ambiguity in the answers the Army required. He was free from all the constant checking and reassessing that wore him down, exhausted him mentally. Instead he was physically exhausted.

Drill. Drill. Drill again.

The endless repetition, the endless marching, the endless obstacle courses. Harsh cotton fatigues worn soft, rigid leather boots worn soft; body hardening. But even this exhaustion brought some freedom; he was just too fucking tired, too busy for other needs to dominate his waking hours and he slept too deeply for them to preoccupy his dreams.

But they were never far from his thoughts.

They were present every time he brought an opponent to the ground, with every thrust of his bayonet, with every pull of the trigger.

He learnt.

He learnt that routine could free his mind. He learnt that discipline led to self- control, to restraint. He learnt that guns were efficient but not thrilling. He learnt many ways to put a man down, many ways to finish him off and he diligently practiced every one. He learnt about camaraderie, about solidarity born out of shared hardship. He learnt what it was like to belong...

There were other lessons, less favourable for military life.

He learnt he did not work well in a team; he would forget and head off on his own, would become impatient and demanding if they failed to meet his expectations. He learnt he still did not know the fine line between enthusiasm and excess; that excess was often driven by the scent of weakness and harder to conceal under the close scrutiny in Basic Training. He learnt that while his body was fully utilised, his mind was now free-wheeling having quickly absorbed the essentials and the lack of mental stimuli brought out the urge to challenge, to question...

Then there were the longings...

A longing for solitude, for libraries. A longing for lively debates about something other than baseball scores and the latest pin-up, for rich Italian food, for...his mother.

And now his body has adjusted to the strenuous exercise, other longings, less wholesome, surface. The longing for soft scented flesh, the squeal of pain, for slick wetness with a coppery tang, for the opportunity to fully utilise his new skills...

As the group of newly qualified soldiers headed off the base for a short furlough following graduation, their minds were filled with needs; a need for loud music and smoky rooms, a need for booze and bullshitting, a need to blow off steam and to score. One, however, had much darker desires to fulfil...


	3. Mind

_The mind is everything. What you think you become. – Buddha_

Delicious irony.

He was learning to savour its subtle dry sharpness. Hiding in plain sight; a killer amongst those trained to kill. Attracting stares as he walked familiar city streets on visits home, but it was the uniform they saw, not the man. He was the focus of attention and utterly anonymous. The structure and safety that had been missing from his childhood provided by the same organisation that could at any moment expose him to the chaos and danger of a war zone. He guessed it was that sense of irony that played a part in his next decision.

He knew, after boot camp, that he needed more than regular army life. Needed some challenge, something for his mind to do. And, relishing the opportunity to have a puzzle to solve, he put his mind to work on mapping out an army career.

He considered training as a sniper; the technical precision was intriguing and the hours spent in preparation and patient waiting resonated with his private pursuits but there was not enough of an intellectual challenge. The aptitude tests and advisors pointed him towards Military Intelligence; it certainly appealed to his insatiable curiosity, his love of acquiring knowledge but it lacked variety. He realised that repetition bred rebellion in him while boredom left his mind open for more dangerous obsessions to fill the vacuum.

The Military Police had been a good decision. There were always more skills to learn. He had been introduced to investigative techniques and forensics and his mind thrilled with new ways of puzzle solving. And when he needed challenges of a more physical nature, there were brawls to break up, arrests to be made. And in interrogations, he finally discovered a constructive use for the skills he had learnt observing the people around him, the hours spent trying to figure out "why?" and his talent for manipulation. He discovered, too, the delicious thrill of breaking a man... and the delicious irony of being rewarded for doing it. Law enforcer and law breaker.

There were other discoveries.

That there was a whole world beyond US borders; a world filled with exotic food and exotic women. That a girlfriend was needed periodically to divert suspicion away from "Don't ask, don't tell" and closer scrutiny; that the lengths he underwent to procure one, like reading the Quran, were more entertaining than the "relationship." That during downtimes, playing poker and going to strip clubs were perfect ways to blend in and as a bonus, he made extra cash and nobody cared if the occasional stripper failed to come to work the next day. That cities all over the world may be superficially different, but there were still dark alleys and wastelands, the weak and the vulnerable...

There were mistakes.

Unexplained scratches and bruises, an interrogation pushed too far, a flash of insubordination, temper unleashed on a girlfriend acquired merely for cover and unable to accept the inevitable break-up. But he was canny and grew more cunning and he learned to exploit the very narrow margins for error that existed within the military machine. As the Marines would say, he learned to improvise, to adapt, to overcome.

All in all, life was good as it could be. Needs met; body and mind in balance.

Little did he know that he would soon encounter a man whose brilliance matched his own; whose obsession with sinister motivations and death- filled desires was equal to his. A man who would throw open a window to his soul...


	4. Soul

_What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. – Aristotle_

Bull meets bird.

Broad shoulders, crew cut, sharp suit meets scrawny frame, tangled locks, rumpled attire. Sgt Robert Goren, Army CID meets Dr Declan Gage, FBI and he's not impressed. He watches this supposedly brilliant man rifle through a chaos of paperwork, search fruitlessly in pockets, hears thoughts uttered and failed to be followed through and wonders, with mounting frustration, how he is going to endure this latest assignment.

Then sharp eyes meet his and he sees.

Sees that the bumbling and fumbling is part of an act, no different from the characters he plays to disarm and deceive. Sees that unfinished sentences are the product of thought processes moving faster and at such tangents that mere speech cannot keep pace. Seeing this, he is intrigued and begins to watch more closely.

He sees that the hat and leather case are not affectations, but props to be used to emphasise, to distract, to demonstrate. Sees that the paperwork is not in chaos, but under constant rearrangement as the puzzle pieces are constructed, analyzed, reorganised until they fit. He sees that eccentricity can be an effective camouflage; that standing out provides as much cover as blending in. He becomes fascinated with the battered leather bag, its uses, its contents and begins to consider getting one of his own. Maybe not a bag, but perhaps a binder?

He does more than watch. He listens.

He realises he can follow the train of thought as it skips tracks, takes diversions, comes back on course. That the pathway may be convoluted but is captivating. And seeing that he has an attentive and intelligent audience, Gage switches to teaching mode and begins to expound, to explain his theories. Rapt, he follows this new guide as he blazes a trail on a hunt of a different kind, the hunt for a serial killer.

Someone like him.

And he is not sure whether he feels greater kinship with the hunter or the hunted; the conflict churns up feelings of confusion, destabilising him.

Gage's words don't help.

"...he'll need some light, he'll want to see. He'll want to see the fear in their eyes, the dawning realisation. He'll want to see the moment of death. Will savour it, it'll excite him..."

As if experiencing the thrill himself, Gage is animated, eyes shining, words spurting out in thick bursts and he feels the excitement, knows the excitement because he has experienced it. Caught in the seductive memories, a secret slips from his lips...

"The scent, uh... the scent is necessary."

He freezes at the sound of the croaked whisper, cannot believe he has uttered out loud something so personal, so revealing. Waits; hot and sickly filled with dread and perverse arousal, a virgin stripped bare, exposed...

"Yes! Yes, my boy. You've got it!"

Cool relief washes over him followed by something warm and strangely comforting...acceptance.

He relaxes.

For the first time he feels completely at ease, knowing that his thoughts, ideas will not be met with horror, with condemnation. Instead they provoke discussion, debate. They spar; no topic taboo. They play; profiler and predator and sometimes he is not sure who is what. They hunt; two minds thrilling to the challenge, the pursuit. They capture; the beast trapped, two men high on triumph.

He is giddy, heady with excitement, drunk on the stimulation, crescendo building. He erupts, in blood and violence, in ecstatic celebration.

And now he knows.

Knows the thrill of this particular hunt, and wants more; knows that the Army is not the place to find it. Knows that the FBI would welcome his skills but knows he would not survive long under their scrutiny. He knows New York City; its familiar haunts and safe havens calling out to him, his mother needing him. Knows, now, where his destiny lies.

He knows something else.

The glorious feeling of being understood, embraced... _known. _


End file.
